


Three's a Crowd

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: And sharp things, Angst and Humor, Beware hot surfaces, Funny whump, Gen, Graphic Description of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Just sit down, Painful Potato Peeling, Shawn Whump, Shawn needs to be surrounded in bubblewrap, clumsy, cooking mahem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Three guys, one meal, no problem.  Right?  Well, one of those men is named Shawn Spencer.Written in homage to one of my favorite fics created by a long missed member of Psychfic; “Two's Company” by centipede (on Psychfic).  I hope to see her amazing talents on display again someday.





	

The tines of the fork rapped against his teeth – tinny tiny reverberations raising a shudder from his dinner companion.

 

“Spencer, knock it off!” Lassiter rubbed his arms and shivered again while the younger man grinned back at him. With a long, deliberate stare, Shawn curled back his upper lip, raised the fork, and with two fingers, rocked it against his front teeth with a grating _ting._

 

“Give me that!” Lassiter snatched for the utensil, managing to jab the meat of his hand with cootie-ridden tines before hurling the damn thing in the general direction of the sink.

 

“Hey!” Henry's voice rose with his son's indignant squawk as the flying flatware almost tripped him up as he headed through the house; platter of raw steaks in hand.

 

Without a word, Lassiter pointed to Shawn, who was next to receive the death glare of reproach.

 

“What? He's the one that threw it!”

 

Henry grunted, shaking his head. “Yeah, but you started it, right, kid?” Setting the meat down on the counter, Henry nodded over his shoulder. “Go pick it up before someone steps on it and stabs their foot.”

 

Grumbling about unfairness and Magna Carta, Shawn rolled out of his chair to retrieve the now dirt flecked fork. Blowing off a few clingy crumbs, he wiped the head of the fork across his shirt as he made his way back to the table with its unlikely guest.

 

“You forgetting something?”

 

Shawn blinked at his father, who now took on the role of Pointy McJab as he directed his offspring's attention towards the sink and the minor mountain of unpeeled spuds awaiting the genius of his artistic craft. Groaning as he slapped his fork back on the table, Shawn dragged towards his task. He heard his father continue on out to the grill. After a second, there was the sound of a chair sliding back and a repeat of the screen door clacking into its frame as Lassie followed the old man out.

 

Glaring down at the potato pile, Shawn sighed and picked up the peeler and his first, red-skinned vegetable.

 

It had started out as a late lunch for himself and his father. Gus had bowed out because, in his words, why should he fight a wolf pack for scraps when he had a standing invitation to dine like a prince at his mom's? Skillfully he'd dodged the notion that, if anyone displayed greedy wolfish eating habits, it was him. Remembering the stinging abuse to his fingers from their last meal together (breakfast) Shawn had allowed his buddy the reprieve with only a single taunt of “momma's boy” to which Gus had replied “you know that's right”.

 

A quick stop at the office had turned into a long afternoon playing arcade Centipede on the flat screen – the ringing phone the only thing to break through the haze of game play. By then, lunch had moved well into the linner hour and dad had gone from his default of mild irritation to full blown spring thaw grizzly. Surely a list of faults past, present, and future had been lingering on the back of the old man's tongue, but the lack of nutrition had cut the lecture short with only the single rebuke that Shawn not forget to pick up a case of beer before heading over. Desire to dodge the meal completely and save himself what would likely be a ruin of an evening filled with thirty years of disappointments, Shawn had caved with the realization that he didn't have a famous football player in his back pocket, this time, to distract his dad from the wrath that would certainly follow a no show.

 

One case of beer and a package of Ding Dongs later and Shawn had nestled his purchases between his thighs as he'd pointed his bike towards his father's house.

 

Spotting the Head Detective's car parked in the driveway had been unexpected. Shawn could count on three fingers the times he'd seen Lassiter at the property. Pushing his tongue under his top lip, Shawn had hoisted his bag by the handles and headed inside to solve the small mystery.

 

A cold case, as it turned out, that was no longer cold. When his father had still been an officer, and Shawn hadn't yet been conceived of, figuratively or literally, there had been a triple homicide at a Thai restaurant near the boardwalk. His father had always suspected it had been a hit as the restaurant had been a cover for drug activity. However, he'd never been able to prove it. Well now, it seemed, Lassiter just had. No arrests had been made, but that was only a matter of time. Meanwhile, Lassiter had stopped by to get Henry's insights about the case – everything that hadn't made it to paper.

 

Forty years was a long time to reminisce, but, as Shawn knew, there were some things that could never be forgotten. Lassiter had gotten what he'd needed and had prepared to leave when Henry had asked if he'd eaten yet.

 

A refusal would have been in character. Hell, a sneer and a query if the old man had been hitting the hooch a bit hard would have also fit with the detective's prickly temperament. He'd caught the scent of fresh blood on a dead case – like hell he'd let it rot in the dark while he kicked his heels back to dine with a mortal enemy. And, granted, it had taken a bit of wheedling on Henry's part (and Shawn was starting to think the hooch theory held merit) when Lassiter had caved.

 

The single case of beer had begun to look very small by that point.

 

Shawn pulled open the cupboard to his right and dug towards the back for the large bowl stashed there. Setting it on the counter for later, he sighed in the most abused fashion while digging a good sized potato from the mesh bag and started carving. After a few minutes, he flipped on the water to rinse his first butchered attempt. Trying to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation outside had done no favors for the pared down white ball he deposited in the kettle of water on the stove a few feet away. Only glancing down now and then at his progress as he shaved skins and a healthy layer of edible material from the in progress side dish, he nudged open the window above the sink a few more inches with his elbow. The wider space allowed more air flow but little in the way of the conversation – still indistinct under the heavier sound of breakers hitting the beach. Shawn leaned closer, turning his head while taking another swipe at the potato in his fingers.

 

“OW!”

 

Potato and peeler tumbled into the sink among the thin red strips previously shed. Seconds later, small drops of brighter red began to patter down among the peelings. Apparently mistaking the heel of his palm for smooth Russet flesh, Shawn had shaved an inch long strip of tender skin from his hand. Cupping his hand around the wide swath of open tissue, he screwed up his lips when he spotted the disgusting remainder still hanging from the mini guillotine. Actually, guillotine wasn't the right word. Iron Maiden? No, that wasn't right either. First of all the peeler was stainless steel...

 

Bumping the handle up with his wrist, Shawn moved his hand under the water, only to jerk it back with a hiss. The trickle that had been used for rinsing potatoes had somehow been edged over to hot. Temporary burn was added to the sharp pain already throbbing down his arm.

 

Shoving the temperature back towards cold, Shawn waited a few moments before making a second attempt. It still stung but it was tolerable for the seconds it took to clear the blood that had begun filling his palm. Not deep, but there was a large patch of skin missing from his hand. The basin of the sink filled with pink water. This wasn't helping. He swept his eyes back and forth across the counter. No paper towels, no wash cloths, and he wasn't yet willing to sacrifice his shirt...

 

He turned a little more and spotted the dish towel hanging from the door of the stove. Perfect. He took one step and yelped as his foot scooted out from under him, carried a hard left by a peel that had missed the sink. Both arms waved as he began to collapse towards the floor. With one wild grab, he snatched for the handle of the stove.

 

Fingertips barely struck the handle of the kettle just coming to a boil. In a motion too fast to react to, the kettle flipped from the burner and lifted a wave of scalding water directly in his path.

 

“AH-FUUCK!” The gush of bubbling liquid splashed across arms, chest, neck, and his previously damaged hand. It was so hot it felt cold.

 

“Crap-crap-crap-crap...” He stiffened – panting and unable to move other than shiver as water and potato fragments dripped from his body.

 

It wasn't exactly an instinctive parental dash to the rescue, but at least Henry had the decency to peer through the door at his soaked and battered offspring, meat fork and machete sized carving knife still gripped together in one hand. “You okay?”

 

Shawn let a groan leak past his clenched teeth. The water was cooling fast now that it was off the heat, but that didn't help the exposed skin that had first reddened, then started to blister. Blinking back at his father, he finally gasped out a breath. “I think I just autoclaved myself.”

 

The eye roll response wasn't the comfort he'd been seeking – worse still the half amused, half exasperated, half a Lassie peeking alongside the doorjam at the spectacle of sopping wet and flash burned psychic. Shawn glared back, still shivering from the adrenaline backlash. Meanwhile, Henry had stepped into the house and was just now getting a real look at the damage. He tossed his knife and fork on the counter and reached for an unscorched section of arm.

 

“Geez, Shawn, you were only alone for five minutes!”

 

Lassiter joined them now as well, whistling as he took in the scene. A few random potato hunks had begun to blacken on the still hot burner. Water had nearly filled the sink to the brim – the drain clogged with peels and a sorely missed chunk of epidermis. Blood drops made several loops on random surfaces while water and splattered potato covered the floor, the cabinets, and the young man standing in the middle of it all.

 

“I see why you two don't eat together often.”

 

Shawn sniffed and tried not to look as disheveled as he felt. “At least people _want_ to eat with me.” The barb was uncalled for and sulky – emotions normally kept in better check – but pain and an all day irritation at being roped into this activity in the first place weren't the best blend for shiny and happy.

 

Lassiter, of course, went from bemused to growling. However, the retort or possible homicide he may have been developing was cut off when Henry guided Shawn back to the sink and wrapped a towel around his still bleeding hand. “Here, hold this tight.”

 

Shawn hissed as he pressed down on the wound. His dad left him to head through the kitchen and into the hall – no doubt going for the first aid kit. The prospect of home surgery wasn't enticing, but neither was bleeding out. Not that he actually _was_ bleeding out...

 

“Hey, Lassy, you mind grabbing me a beer?” Hunched over the sink, Shawn swallowed back an uncomfortable acid surge from his gut. He was trying not to move but it was hard not to flinch as even the brush of his sleeves against his arms felt like it was peeling back his flesh.

 

“You can barely stand up straight and you want to get drunk?”

 

Shawn grinned tightly. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

 

His father walked back into the room then, holding the well stocked medical kit in one hand with a few towels draped over his arm.

 

“Slide over a bit.” His father nudged his shoulder and Shawn eased to the right – still hunched over with his arms extended out stiff before him. He turned on the water again, moving the faucet over the empty sink basin, before turning to his other guest. “Grab me the plastic wrap. It's in that second drawer down.”

 

As Lassiter bent to pull open the indicated drawer, Shawn frowned. “Plastic wrap? What do you need that...” He started to straighten as he spoke, his father glancing back with a too late warning of “watch it!”

 

The top of Shawn's head collided with something solid and unmoving. A burst of light and excruciating pain almost landed him on his knees – the edge of the counter the one thing that kept him from going down. He'd forgotten the cabinet door he'd left open when he'd looked for a bowl earlier.

 

“Ouch...” Lassiter responded in what could only be described as impressed sympathy.

 

“Nuughh...” Shawn's hands wrapped over the top of his skull, the motion pulling his sleeves tight over his burned arms. The moment his left hand touched down he hissed again – yanking it away at the sting from the open wound on his palm.

 

“Here, don't do that.” His dad flipped the cabinet door shut before guiding his son back to the sink where he turned the running water over the burns.

 

“Hu-hunh... auuuh...” It burned even more the first few seconds until the cool started to beat back the pain. While he hung there, breathing with a small hitch, his dad gently parted the hair on the back of his head. Shawn chuffed a laugh. “You really are owning the poppa monkey title, aren't you.”

 

His father grunted. “I'm not picking bugs from your head, I'm trying to see if you're...”

 

Shawn didn't like the trailed off words nor the way Lassiter leaned in as well. “Did he always have a dent there?”

 

“Have you always been bow-legged?” Shawn was beyond surly now and was unable to control what came out of his mouth. Contrary to what Gus or his father or most anyone else would claim, he always thought about his words before letting them fly... he just didn't always think about them for very long.

 

“Bow-legged?” He didn't _think_ Lassy would clobber him, but Shawn slid away enough to put his father between himself and the detective.

 

Still holding one arm, Henry was pulled along with the shameless bit of cowering – his elbow brushing over the counter – and swiping his butcher knife over the edge.

 

“Henry!”

 

It all took on the feel of Three Stooges clip; one with a Clive Barker twist. Watching it play out in slow motion still didn't give any of them enough time to prevent the next sequence of events. Shawn jerked backwards as the knife made a nose dive, light reflecting off the edge of the blade, and jabbed the top of his foot. “GAAH!” Arms cartwheeling, he continued to stumble, the other two men shouting at him, and felt his back slam into the stove. Hopping on one foot, still in mid fall, he swung his right hand back and grabbed for whatever purchase he could find.

 

For the third time that night, he felt the icy sizzle of his flesh scalding. His scream was of a decibel usually reserved for tea kettles and eunuchs. As he tore his hand away from the still white hot burner, his feet slipped out from under him and he completed his drop to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

 

 

 

Shawn stared at the wide tear where the blade had stabbed through his shoe, three inches up from his toes. The weight of the knife had caused it to impale through the heavy canvas and into his foot before it had been knocked free by his flailing. He made one weak attempt to stand, only to have a hand push against his shoulder.

 

“Just... stay down, kid.”

 

Probably good advice, considering.

 

“I'll call an ambulance.” Lassiter already had his phone out – demonstrating his quick draw but stopping short of the finger spin.

 

“Dude, I don't need an ambulance!” Shawn automatically moved to brace his hands against the uncomfortably wet floor. Just-gnuuh!” Okay, maybe an ambulance wouldn't be so bad. Pulling his hands back into his lap and letting his butt land on the floor again, Shawn realized he'd dropped the towel that had been staunching the blood from his hand injury. His _first_ hand injury.

 

His father stood while he felt around for it, finally locating it a little to the left and behind. Reaching for it pulled at his shoulder and put painful creases through his hand, but after a few seconds of scrabbling he was able to pinch two fingers on the edge.

 

“Don't worry about the ambulance,” Shawn looked up as his father spoke to Lassiter, his eyebrows pushing together in confused affrontery. Just because he didn't want to ride in a white paddy wagon didn't mean he was willing to spend the night with his father playing nurse... “I'll drive him to the ER.”

 

Oh.

 

Fabulous.

 

Lassy must have thought that was a fab idea too because he thumbed off his phone and slid it back into his pocket. “Do we need a stretcher?”

 

Shawn twisted a smile. “Lassy, you made a joke! Did you take your Paxil today?”

 

Not goaded this time, Lassiter only shook his head before soaking another towel under cold water. At the same time, Henry knelt again. He was holding the box of plastic wrap that had baffled Shawn earlier.

 

Shawn pressed back against the stove. “Wha-what are you planning with that?”

 

Pulling out a sheet, Henry moved to lay it across Shawn's right arm. “This will keep the towels from sticking.”

 

“Stic...? Gnuh!” His head rapped back against the stove door as the plastic made contact with his blistered skin. As much as he wanted to jerk away, he held still through the process – eyes shut and breath a broken pant. Well, as still as the tremors in his muscles would allow. It wasn't until he felt a touch on his other side that he opened his eyes again.

 

Lassiter was placing the damp towels over the plastic – the cool taking away some of the pain.

 

“Don't expect pity from me, Spencer. I'll have you know I'm doing this out of self interest. I'd like to preserve my chances of getting fed tonight.”

 

Shawn grinned – the easiest way to smile while gritting his teeth. After a second, though, he gasped, unable to keep quiet. “Admit it, Lasserio; you're doing this because of our unbroken bond of love. You know what moves me.”

 

On the other side of him, his father made a sound that was alarmingly close to retching. Lassiter snorted as he dropped another towel down with just a tad too much force.

 

“God, Spencer, you really are easy aren't you.”

 

Henry grunted as he applied the last towel. “Would you two like some alone time or can we get going?”

 

The next part was only slightly more fun than the past fifteen minutes had been. With Lassy on one side and his father on the other, Shawn was heaved to his feet – his wobble supported by their grips. The shuffle towards the door was even less stable, with a lot of hissing and half muttered curses as everything blazed with hurt.

 

Getting into the truck was even worse – especially when Lassiter crammed in as well forcing Shawn to the center seat. “Wow, Lassy, I'm touched...”

 

“Cram it in your pie hole, Spencer.”

 

Shawn nodded. “I know, I know – self interest.” He tried to move as little as possible as he held his arms out stiff before him. He glanced towards the man on his right. “Lassy?”

 

Experience made the man sigh before he replied. “What?”

 

Shawn shifted his butt a little closer as he stared up with as much adoration as he could pour into his eyes. “Can I lie my head on your shoulder?”

 

The tight smile back was disconcerting. “Of course! As long as I can rip your thumbs off at the knuckle.”

 

Shawn edged back towards his father. “Dude, I think you need to speak to someone about these violent impulses. I hear shock therapy is really big right now.”

 

Turning to his dad – his last hope for any meaningful comfort, Shawn switched out the creepy infatuation for puppy dog pouting. “Next time can we just order pizza?”

 

Henry smiled, his eyes never wavering from the road as he responded to his son in his most loving tone. “Shawn, the next time we have dinner together, I'm duct taping you to the couch and feeding you through a straw.”

 

Screw pizza and screw any notion of “next time”. From this point on, Shawn was taking his meals alone.

 

Or maybe just with Gus.

 

After all, somebody had to pay the waitress.


End file.
